


with smiles on our faces

by shrdmdnssftw



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrdmdnssftw/pseuds/shrdmdnssftw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's pretty sure he'd remember something like tonight (like pressing Louis up against the grimy bathroom stall, like Louis kissing him back, giving as good as he got, like fingers dipping under waistbands and tangling in hair). Harry can't think of a single night, not during filming this time around, or that first getting-to-know-you phase, or even post-production, that they went home together.</p><p>Or, a movie stars AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with smiles on our faces

Harry’s manager is going to fucking kill him.

He’s not 100% sure how much trouble he’ll be in this time, but Sam’s going to kill him, at least, along with Lou and Paul and the rest of his team. Of course, he’d probably be a bit more concerned if he could tear his eyes away from Louis for just one moment, for just long enough to pay attention to the crowds of paparazzi outside the club.

He doesn’t though, walks on, pulling on Louis by the grip on his wrist, and ducking to avoid the flashes. Harry can feel the constant thrum of Louis’ pulse under his fingertips and he wants to feel it again, later, under his lips and at Louis’ throat, wants to tease out the feeling of being alive.

It’s probably a bad idea to be thinking about it, let alone walking around with Louis in public, but he’s a fucking star, and Harry’s never said he’s smart. Managing to flag down a taxi, he opens the door and all but pushes Louis in, quickly scrambling through to follow.

“Christ,” Louis says, once the doors have closed against the noise of the London night, “that was-“

“Madness, I’m so sorry, Lou, had no idea it’d be like that.”

Louis smiles, shuffles a little closer to Harry on the seat. “I was going to say a rush, but yeah, a bit unexpected too.”

Harry’s glad that Louis can take it in his stride, has some sense of reality, because he can’t focus on more than what’s in front of him right now.

“Oi, ‘ve you lot got a place you wanna head to or what?”

The voice of the taxi-driver cuts through enough that Harry snaps his head up, looks in the rearview and sees the slight annoyance in the man’s eyes. It’s a good sign, means he probably doesn’t know who Harry or Louis are (fresh young upstarts, those two kids who shot from nothing to superstardom in the span of an indie flick) and won’t blab to the presses. Probably.

“Uh, yeah, I just-” Harry breaks to look at Louis, sees him nod slightly, and then turns back to rattle off his address.

The driver just turns his head back to the road and indicates to move into the next lane over. Harry slumps back into his seat, settles into the worn leather. All this time, he hasn’t let go of Louis once.

“You’re good though?” Harry finds himself asking again and Louis huffs out a little laugh at that.

“Yeah, ‘m fine, Haz, ‘s nothing we haven’t done before.”

That’s a lie. Harry’s pretty sure he’d remember something like tonight (like pressing Louis up against the grimy bathroom stall, like Louis kissing him back, giving as good as he got, like fingers dipping under waistbands and tangling in hair). Harry can’t think of a single night, not during filming this time around, or that first getting-to-know-you phase, or even post-production, that they went home together.

No, this is definitely new, leaving the club at the same time, draped over each other and Harry’s going to face a shit storm of damage control in the morning. It’s one thing to be an out movie star, another to be seen with your co-star the night before the launch of your latest long awaited movie.

He can’t find the energy to care though, or not beyond a few errant thoughts, because Louis’ moved his hand now, slipped it out of Harry’s fingers and onto his thigh, higher up that Harry might’ve dared, if he tried the same on Lou.

There’s warmth bleeding through, and energy, and Harry wants to move his hand up higher, wants his voice to hitch, drop in pitch, wants so much but then the car shifts, a reminder that five minutes and they’re at Harry’s flat.

He darts his eyes over to Louis face, sees the smirk on there and returns it, refusing to react when Louis actually follows through, moves his hand to wrap around the shape of Harry in his dark wash jeans, cock twitching at the contact.

Louis’ fingers feel like a tease, light and nimble and he wants to feel the rest of Louis pressing up against him, pushing him until he breaks and wants to tell Louis what he wants, so badly.

The taxi pulls up in front of Harry’s building with a squeal of the brakes and Harry makes a note to probably arrange for a car next time.  _Next time_ , and he squeezes his wallet out of his pocket, draws out a couple of notes to pass the driver, and exits the car without a look back, certain that Louis will follow.

It’s quiet, except for the sound of the car pulling away, and Harry’s never been more glad to live in such a dodgy neighbourhood. His mum asks when he’ll move out, now that he can afford it, or if he’ll at least fix the crooked bathroom mirror, the leaky kitchen sink. For now, it’s good, and Harry waits until Louis’ caught up to him on the stoop of the building before pouncing on him again, pulling him close under the flickery light and pressing their lips together.

He can’t stop, loves the way that Louis kisses with so much force, makes Harry open up for him and feel out of control in all the right ways. Harry wants to freeze this moment, to tuck it away as a memory between folds of paper and sheets of clean fabric, but knows that they might  _actually_ freeze if they keep it up any longer.

“I want-” Harry mumbles against Louis’ lips, “hey, I-“

“Yeah,” Louis agrees and he’s walking Harry back until his back’s against the door, uses it to prop the two of them up and kiss Harry deeper. He can feel the bite of Louis’ thumbs, digging into his hips, and wonders if there’ll be bruises there (if he can leave bruises in the same spots on Louis).

“No, c’mon,” says Harry and he tilts his head, Louis moving his kisses down the line of Harry’s jaw, little bites that travel down his neck and along his collarbones.

Managing to fumble for his keys, Harry thanks whatever’s out there once more for the lack of good lighting in this neighbourhood, lest he scar his neighbours, and the lack of paparazzi, lest he ruin his career.

 _Might be worth it anyway_ , his mind says and Harry has to push that thought out, push Louis away a bit so he can actually turn and get to the door. 

“‘s the third floor, yeah?” Louis asks, still trying to press kisses on Harry, looking as desperate as Harry feels now that there’s not a single pap or taxi driver in sight.

“Mm,” Harry agrees.

“Then I’ll race you,” says Louis and Harry doesn’t register what he’s said until Louis’ ducked under his arm and bolted towards the stairway.

Harry has the mind to lock the front door behind him before he goes after Louis, knows that he’ll regret it if he doesn’t give him too much of a challenge.

Reaching the third landing, he spots Louis not an arms length away and reaches out to snag his hand, pushes himself that little bit more to catch up, and then the situation from outside is flipped, Harry pulling Louis’ arms above his head and pressing in on him until they’ve got practically no space between them.

He realises that he’s holding Louis’ wrists rather tightly, goes to loosen his grip a bit but then Louis shakes his head marginally and Harry’s breath catches.

“Yeah?” he asks and Louis refuses to say any more, just bares his neck like a challenge, chin up like Harry’s seen him on set, proud and defiant, and he has to kiss there, make a mark on the tan skin.

His teeth aren’t nearly as sharp as Louis, but Harry thinks they’ll still make a mark. He watches as the skin pinks below his lips, redder with each little nip, and wonders what Louis’ PR team will think, whether he’ll be reprimanded.

And he wants to tell _himself_ off for getting distracted in this moment because Louis takes advantage of it to spread his legs and let Harry's thigh slip between Louis’ own. He can feel Louis’ cock pressed against him, hard in his jeans and bites deeper, laves his tongue over the spot where there  _will_ be a mark and chokes out a breath when Louis rolls his hips up.

“C’mon, Harry,” he says, voice low and rough, and that's enough to make Harry break. He shoves them both away from the wall, using the momentum to pull them out of the stairway and towards his front door.

From there, it's a mess of touch and sound, Louis mouth under his own, hands fumbling at jeans and for keys in pockets, then through the door.

Louis' been to his place before, knows the hallway that leads down to Harry's room, and pushes them both towards it.

"One track mind," Harry huffs out with amusement, and Louis bites down on his neck, as if to say _you like it_.

He does, loves it, in fact, especially now that it's got Louis beneath him, Louis' hands on him, brushing lips like he needs Louis' air to breathe. Harry wants so badly, feels like he's burning up, will burn up unless he can shove his shirt off, get the fabric off of his skin until they're both bare. It seems that they're both in the same frame of mind, because Louis shifts his grip on Harry's side to reach for the buttons of his shirt, pops them open until he can reach the ink on Harry's chest.

His tattoos aren't actually more sensitive than any other part of him, but somehow every press of Louis' lips to the birds, to the words that trickle down his arm and sleeve, feels charged. Louis' got his own tattoos, a slighty more organised mess on his right arm and Harry needs to see if it's the same for Louis, if it'll make him break. Harry mumbles something that might be  _shirt_ or maybe  _naked_ and Louis gets the hint, shucking his own clothes, then moving to get Harry out of the rest of his.

And like that, they're naked, skin against skin, heat and rough movements, calluses on Harry's hands skimming over the smooth of Louis' shaft, and the muffled sounds of Louis coming, hot and hard between them. It's desperate and dangerous, too much and too little, and Harry wants to feel that over and over, Louis breaking beneath him, shards and sharps that tip him over the edge, let him follow.


End file.
